


Garden of Eden

by Lochinvar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Ash, Awesome Charlie, BAMF Sam Winchester, Brotherly Love, Canon Universe, Dark Character, Hunters & Hunting, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic, New York City, Nobody is Dead, Passion, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17819702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: Dean said No.Sam leaves. And he encounters a new love. Turns out differently from what he expected.





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paradigmenwechsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradigmenwechsel/gifts).



> So as not to give much away, I am putting warnings and additional tags in the beginning and ending notes of each chapter. Even though no good humans are killed and any monster violence is within the canon, this is darker than what I usually write. 
> 
> Inspired by thoughts of how sometimes the line is fuzzy between "good" love and "bad" love. Also, what would Sam do if Dean turned him down.
> 
> No violence in this chapter, except off-stage mention of monster death.
> 
> I own nothing; rely on the talent and kindness of strangers. 
> 
> No Beta; all mistakes are mine to claim and bear.
> 
> Kudos and comments and bookmarks much appreciated - thank you.

Dean said _No_.

He kept staring at his laptop’s screen, where he had been reading a dicey report sent by a friend in a coroner’s office in southern Indiana. Didn’t look up when Sam asked him, didn’t look up to see him leave. Sam never said another word.

He heard Sam walk away, heard the Bunker door to the garage open and close softly. The garage’s big outside hatch opened. A whisper through the thick walls. Then the long rumble as an engine started up, and a vehicle, not the Impala, left. The hatch closed behind it.

Okay, thought Dean. Sam’s gotta run this out of his system. But he’ll be back, maybe in an hour, maybe in a couple of weeks.

Once upon a time, Sam had been right. Dean was a lonely man, and his younger brother, even in bad times, and even more than the bottom of a bottle, was his last refuge against paralyzing memories of pain and defeat.

And yet Dean was terrified when Sam found the courage to ask for more than friendship from his big brother. Not surprised. Dean had been waiting for that shoe to drop ever since his Sammy hit puberty at 100 mph, age 14, and Dean came out of the motel shower with a shred of a towel low around his hips. The boy genius was stretched out on one of the beds in the room, surrounded by open library books for a school project. He looked up at his big brother, and Dean felt the magnetic poles of the earth shift. Something sucked the oxygen out of the room for both brothers.

Dean defused the situation by shaking his soaking head like an old yella dog, spraying his kiddo so the younger boy would become annoyed, replacing desire with his iconic bitch face. No longer staring at Dean as if he was a lighthouse and Sam was about to be shipwrecked on an uncharted island.

\-----

Sam was gone. So, Dean worked. Drank. Slept. Talked to Bobby about the Indiana case. Set up base camp in the Bunker’s shower room. Snacked on junk food instead of cooking. Dean Normal.

Binged on the kind of noisy movies that Kid Sammy had loved and Grown-up Sam hated. The younger Hunter lost his taste for cinema destruction and death after his soul was restored.

Dean broke first. Called four days after Sam left. _Number no longer in service._ Called Sam’s second-best and third-best and the secret emergency burner number. All dead ends. Threw his own phone against the wall of his bedroom.

That’s when Dean went to break into Sam’s room and found the door unlocked. It swung open, and he saw the note on the bed. One folded piece of paper, which seemed to be the _Winchester Way_ to say good-bye. Forever.

First, a few words that broke Dean’s heart. And then the sentence that made him crush the paper, yell _Son of a Bitch_ , and rush to the garage. Sam’s reliable Ford truck, the one with the extra space that accommodated his long legs and broad shoulders and the extra heavy-duty shock absorbers and the plus-long bed for hauling the biggest monsters to a county landfill for burning. Missing, and so was the silver 1949 Jaguar XK120.

It was one of what Sam and Dean fondly called their “cash cows”: cherry condition collectible automobiles worth small fortunes, courtesy of their grandfather Henry and the other car-loving Men of Letters. Drive up to any dealership in the Heartland and walk away with a suitcase full of green.

Sam had stolen the truck and the Jaguar.

Okay, easy-peasy.

Dean took the stairs into the bunker three at a time and slid, hip-first, into his chair next to the map table, where his laptop lay open. He turned on the tracking app that Charlie had installed, which had saved their collective bacon a dozen times.

Nothing on either car. Like they didn’t exist.

He went back to Sam’s room and tore apart drawers and boxes and his spacious bunker closet, looking for something to indicate where Sam had gone.

Meanwhile, his Hunter brain, aka Adult Dean, had kicked in and pointed out two salient facts.  
  
**One:** Nothing was missing from the room. The thread-bare Army issue duffle bag, the family photos, the row of flannel shirts, his well-worn boots, his Stanford t-shirt, the leather wallet Dean had bought him for his high school graduation (before Dean found out about Stanford), his favorite gun, his second-favorite gun, his precious collection of knives including the enchanted Bowie (another high school graduation gift, this one from Pastor Jim and Bobby), his autographed copy of _Catcher in the Rye._ Rufus Turner never let on how he got the notoriously reclusive author to not just sign it but inscribe it to S _amuel Winchester, a scholar and a gentleman._  His laptop, which, when Dean opened it, self-destructed with a small puff of red smoke. A spot-on _Mission: Impossible_ shout-out and, in retrospect, a special good-bye gift to Dean.

Dean was not in the mood at the time.

Looked as if Sam had strolled over to the kitchen for a beer and sandwich and was going to return any moment.

But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t, according to the note, ever again.

 **Two:** (Dean’s Adult Brain was relentless.) Dean heard Sam walk directly from the map table to the garage door. Heard him drive away, apparently with the Jaguar tied to the oversized bed of the truck, probably under a protective tarp. When did he lift the Jag onto the truck?

When did he leave the note?

When exactly did he prepare to leave?

Which is when and why Dean realized that Sam had spent weeks, if not months, preparing to ask Dean  _The Question_ and preparing for Dean to say _No_. The fact that Sam left everything behind meant he was going deep and long. He must have stockpiled new clothing and new shoes and a new wallet. A new cell phone with a new phone number.

Created a _New Sam._  
  
Somewhere in the future, Dean imagined, there will be a tall guy–hard to fix tall–with short white hair, living his version of the Witness Protection Program, selling office supplies or driving heavy equipment or filing insurance claims or working day labor on an assembly line in a bottling plant. Probably staying away from law firms and universities–anything _Smart_ that would give him away.

Dean returned to the map table and called up the Hunter Brain Trust: Frank and Ash and Bobby and Charlie.

What did they know?

Dean contacted Frank first, because he was the rock god of identity erasure, proven to have confounded the NSA, Heaven, and Hell. The crazy paranoid (who nonetheless was right about pretty much everything all the time) faked his own death during the Leviathan era but sent a postcard to the brothers…from the Lebanon Post Office. (Damn, the man is good.) A cheesy still from a 1950s sci-fi movie with a robot, apparently made of aluminum foil, threatening a woman in a very tight sweater. No message. No return address.

Nonetheless, Sam figured out how to reach him. Of course he did. Well, Dean could, too. He asked himself: What would Sammy do?  
  
Dean drove to the Lebanon Post Office, pulled from the revolving wire rack a picture post card, the one with the shot of the iconic grain elevator that still stood next to the railroad tracks that bisect the town. Addressed to Frank-no last name, no street name, no city or state or country, no message or return address. Bought an international stamp, stuck it on, and handed the card, yellowed with age, to the postmistress. Didn't bother to flirt.  
  
She looked at the postcard. Showed no emotion, and dropped it in the tray labeled "Out-of-state".  
  
Two days later, the old wind-up ham radio that sat forgotten on a shelf in the Bunker's war room fired up on its own, despite the fact that it had no visible source of power.  
  
Dean carried it to the map table, settled it next to his laptop and flicked a switch.  
  
Frank spoke without preamble.  
  
"So, you want to know about Sam. Took you long enough."

Sam had told Frank an unadorned story about making sure the Hunter version of a “go-bag” would be ready if a threat like the Leviathans showed up again and he and Dean needed to go off the grid in a hurry.

Wanted to surprise Dean with his work.  
  
“Mum’s the word,” said Frank.

A harmless secret.

Always keep your lies simple.  
  
That was a year ago.

As Frank built the virtual escape hatch, he had questions. Finally, Sam knew he couldn’t lie to Frank anymore. He told him the truth, knowing that Frank would never betray a friend under any circumstances to anyone or anything on the seven planes of existence.   
  
Sam was leaving. He loved Dean, he knew Dean loved him, and he was tired of waiting. It hurt, more each passing year. He was going to ask Dean the big question, basically an old-fashioned marriage proposal, even though he was sure Dean was going to say _No._ He didn't want Dean to find him afterwards, at least not in this life.  
  
"Okay," said Frank.  
  
Frank provided Sam with multiple uncrackable identity documents that he would enable him to leave and disappear. The paranoid old man then erased the traces of his work and brought an inexorable end to Samuel Winchester and his Hunter life.

Sam said it was okay for Frank to tell Dean what happened after he had left. Not the details, of course. Not the aliases or where Sam was going or how he was staying out of sight.

Dean knew better than to push Frank.  
  
“I’m sorry,” said Frank, an uncharacteristic response. Took Dean a few days to reflect on and understand what Frank was sorry for.

\-----

Then a call to Ash. Dean guessed correctly that Ash had been Number Two on Sam's list.

Sam had sold Ash on a Big Lie as well. Told him it was all part of an elaborate War Game virtual cosplay that Sam was masterminding. A surprise gift for Dean.  
  
Ash appreciated the cases of _New Castle_ Sam brought him as payment.

The day before Sam popped the question to Dean, he told Ash that he would leave for a few days to test the “What If The Leviathans or Equivalents Return” plan. Ash needed to launch the beta of Project Off-Grid Version II, which Ash had been building for Sam for months.

How would the M. I. of T. reject’s technology work? Sam would check in with Bobby once a month via the elaborate labyrinth of switches and relay stations Ash had cobbled together from old Radio Shack project kits. Ash had included a couple of hacks that really ticked off old Isaac (Ike to his friends) Newton in Heaven, because Ash had managed to break a couple of Very Important Laws. Fortunately for Ash, there would be no "Physics Jail", even in the Afterlife.

Each month, the connection would be made a different way. Three rings on Bobby's landline. Three honks of his truck’s horn. Three empty texts on his back-up cell from an untraceable number. Three blinks of the lights in Bobby’s kitchen. Three blank postcards, generated through a mailing service, sent to his post office box.

Bottom line: A metaphorical tap on the shoulder that Castiel's old Garrison couldn’t trace.

But Ash didn't know it wasn't a game.

He listened to Dean share Frank's information and in turn told Dean what he knew. But the way his system was designed, even he could not backtrack Sam's location.   
  
His response: _Coming to Lebanon, buddy._ And hung up, before Dean could protest.  
  
A nifty feat for a mere human, since to the best of Dean's knowledge Ash was at a Grey Hat (not quite Black Hat, not quite White Hat) conference in Israel on someone's grandfather's kibbutz.

\-----

Bobby was not happy when Dean called and told him the story, leaving out the big _Why_ of Sam's departure. Bobby hadn't told Dean about the mythical test project because Sam asked him not to, as he did the others. 

The old Hunter had clocked more “normal” experience in the “real” world than most of the brothers’ allies; Sam sought him out for practical suggestions about travel and identity and making a living. Helped with some of the ground work. Did not know where Sam was going.

Bobby had changed Sam’s diapers; not much the boy could hide from him. And, he knew something was off. Bobby pretended to believe that Sam's research was to test his ability to rabbit underground if needed.

However, he assumed that Sammy’s “Leviathan Escape” scheme was to cove up his “real” scheme, which was to pop up under an assumed name at an Ivy in New England or head back to Stanford as Sam Campbell, resume his climb into a high-class law office, and eventually gift the occasional pro bono work to keep his brother and fellow Hunters out of the Supermax prison in Florence, Colorado. Maybe buy them a good meal once in a while. Maybe, maybe, name the second rugrat Robert.

Sam told Bobby that if he didn’t hear from him once a month per Ash’s failsafe system, when and if Dean and he had to leave for real, Bobby was to assume they were gone. To Heaven, the Empty, or somewhere on the Other Side of Here and Now.

Light a candle. Have a drink.

Bobby thought it was typical Hunter black humor.

The old man listened silently as Dean shared what Frank and Ash had told him.  Now they all knew that Sam was gone for good, without Dean. This was not a test.  
  
And Bobby did not have any specifics to where Sam might be. They had vetted a hundred scenarios, and given it was Frank who had prepared the escape logistics, all they would know for sure was that Sammy was on Earth. And Bobby understood why Frank would not tell where, regardless of the cost to Dean and their extended family.

“Stop yelling, Dean, or I swear I'm hanging up,” said an angry and hurt Bobby.

Click.

\-----

Charlie was last on Dean’s list, knowing she would cry and then show up at the Bunker and beat the crap out of him. While crying. Turned out, she knew nothing, except that there was a Plan. And Sam was going to test the Plan. Charlie had a vague idea what was going on. Sam would be away for a while, and don’t tell Dean anything, and he was playing hide and seek and hide with the help of Frank, Ash, and Bobby. She assumed she could get the truth out of Ash at her leisure.

Except a month ago, Sam spent a three-day weekend with her. (He had told Dean he was researching a case in Idaho.) They met up in Chicago and had an extended date. Three days of world-class museums and geeking out at the Apple store and walking along the lakefront and attending a heartbreaking performance of one of Gustav Mahler’s works by the _Chicago Symphony Orchestra._ (Didn’t matter which opus; they all are heartbreaking.) Eating deep-dish veggie pizza and throwing down shots of _Becherovka_. Staying at a four-star hotel, chastely sharing a bed, and cuddling.

Sam said he needed to create a new set of good memories to take with him, in case his test of the Leviathan Emergency Stealth system went south and he was forced to stay off the grid longer than he had planned. Sam never told Charlie the real reason he would be leaving.  
  
When Dean told her Sam was gone, she cried. Over her sobs, he told her he loved her and would call back later.  
  
\-----  
  
Dean’s Adult Brain had one more fact to share. Annoying brain. As penance  for the stupidest decision he had managed in a lifetime of stupid, Dean made himself confess to his closest friends, one at a time, the whole truth. How the Winchester Brothers really felt about each other, and although he wanted what Sam was asking for as much as Sammy did, and probably for as long, He told them each the question Sam asked, told them he said _No,_ and told them that he should have said _Yes._

First he called Frank and told his unspoken side of the story. That Sam was right. And Dean was a coward.   
  
"So sorry," said Frank, again. Nothing more to say.

Then, he called back Bobby, apologized for hanging up, and said his piece. Bobby muttered his iconic "Idjits". Did not seem surprised.  
  
Then Ash. Caught him on route back to Kansas in a boutique hotel in Paris. His friends tended to assume the hillbilly genius paid little attention human relations, but, like everyone else in the Hunter community (and other entities ad infinitum), he knew what the Winchester soul bond meant. He was a romantic. Fell in love once a month. Always sent flowers when the relationship was over.   
  
A long silence from Ash. Of course he knew.  
  
The big surprise was that it was not a surprise to anyone who cared about the Winchester brothers. Sam loved Dean. Dean loved Sam. In every way. Sort of like one of Ike Newton’s Laws.

The universal response was as if each of Dean’s friends was waiting for the additional _Actual Shocking Revelation._ Like Dean admitting to loving disco music.

Dean’s _Big Reveal_ ended up being anti-climactic.   
  
And Dean felt awful.

He could have said _Yes_ , and their extended family would have been fine with _Mr. and Mr. Winchester_ in any form. Probably would have ambushed them with an engagement party. Bobby would have walked them down the aisle together.

And, then, when he didn’t think it was possible, Dean felt worse than awful when Frank called him back and asked about the ring.  
  
Dean never looked up when Sam popped _The Question._  
  
Never saw the ring.  
  
(When he searched Sam’s room, again, he found the treasure box. The two amulets, old photos, and small keepsakes were untouched. Looked like the only thing Old Sam passed on to New Sam was that ring.)  
  
Charlie, between sniffles, had the presence of mind to tell Dean that she would teach him the special, top-secret, gay tribal handshake. Which made him smile for the first time since Sam left.

\-----

Eventually Dean traced the truck to a used car dealer in Wichita, Kansas. Dean bought it back and arranged for some local Hunter buddies, a husband and wife team, to drive it to Lebanon. The wife drove the truck; her hubby followed in their car. Parked the truck in the Bunker garage and drove home. Dean insisted on paying them well, not the usual practice in Hunter life, which was based on an economy of bartered favors and gifts. Would not take no for an answer. Thanked them a little too much.

Dean is getting soft, they said to each other on the ride home, chatting on their old-fashioned CB radios, making up outlandish handles to amuse each other. It’s a good marriage when you still can make your partner laugh out loud.

The Jag was in Austin, Texas where it sat in the driveway of a very happy Facebook executive. The man who sold her the car didn’t look remotely like Sam. All the paperwork was in order, with a faked trail of titles going back decades and across state lines, and they all checked out. Frank, again.

Dean’s clever baby brother had haunted the online classic car websites with multiple faked personae for months and arranged the transaction via third parties and brokers. No one ever met Martin White, Dennis Williams, or James Anderson. The cash was deposited into an escrow account controlled by a law firm that did not exist and disappeared almost immediately down a crypto-currency badger hole that Frank had set up and could not access.

Dean pretended he had made a mistake about the provenance of the car. Wished the new owner well.

No trail to follow. No trace of Old or New Sam, because it never occurred to Dean that he would know someone named James Kelly, a grocery store bookkeeper from Allentown, Pennsylvania, fifteen years older than his brother according to the driver’s license, who would board a plane in Kansas City and fly to New York City.

And Frank would never tell.

\-----

As regular as the proverbial cesium fountain clock in the National Institute of Standards and Technology in Boulder, Colorado, the pings from Ash’s Rube Goldberg communication array signaled Bobby, once a month. Bobby signaled Dean, then the rest of the inner circle.

Dean, meanwhile, filled his days in what Ash dubbed his “Mission From Chuck”. Meaning, instead of waiting for signs of a case, Dean and his Baby methodically swept through Kansas and the Plain States in an ever-widening gyre, town by town, hunting for signs of unfriendly supernatural activity.

And Sammy.

First, he picked out a lower end cash cow from the bunker garage, a 1940 Cadillac Fleetwood, and sold it to a dealer in Kansas City for pocket money. Didn’t want to bother with credit card fraud or scamming drunk undergraduates over brewpub pool tables in college towns.

Then, the grief-stricken Hunter upped the amperage of his homemade electromagnetic field meter and trolled for beasties to gank. He cruised down dozens of versions of Main Street and Elm Street and Broadway. Scouted abandoned factories killed by overseas competition and the skeletal ruins of bankrupt farms, murdered by drought and hail and the brutality of the marketplace, as savage as any gladiatorial arena in ancient Rome.

He cleared out hidden vampire nests, ones that fed on teen runaways and homeless veterans and undocumented workers–people no one would come looking for. Tracked down hibernating wendigos. Ghosts that were stuck in abandoned houses and needed a way Home. Things without a name.

Other Hunters began tracking his movements. Stayed friendly but stayed out of his way.

Periodically he would circle back to Lebanon. Tune up Baby. Clean his guns. Restock his inventory of holy water and silver bullets. Sharpen blades that didn’t need sharpening. (He bought salt on the road.) Ate and showered and did laundry. Stared at his oversized television screen, not seeing the movies he loaded in the old dvd player.

Then gone again.

Made sure Bobby and Ash and Charlies knew where he was, all the time. Just in case. Didn’t bother with Frank. Knew he would never tell.

Six months after Sam left, the messages to Bobby stopped.


	2. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old Sam becomes Peter Wilson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How he lives without Dean.

Samuel Winchester was not a coward, but he spent a year plotting his escape route. If Dean said _No_ he could leave and never have to see him again. Didn't expect to heal, to get over Dean, and it would be worse if he stayed, regardless of how Dean treated him. Nice would have been worse than cold silence.

Frank had run the odds. Less than five percent that Dean would say yes and that the two soul mates could live happily ever after.

In a rare gesture, Frank shared what he hoped was solace while talking to Sam over a secured Dark Web video conferencing site while they were discussing a dozen exit strategies.

"Even I know he loves you, you know, in that way. The way you want him to love you. And asking him to marry you before you, you know, is a nice touch. Really. And if he says no don't care what the metrics show. It's just because he's afraid. You know. He will come around."

Frank was awkward, but sincere.

Sam responded by ending the call abruptly. Did not contact Frank for a week. After that, the man kept his mouth shut.

\-----

New York City was the perfect place to vanish. Thousands of homeless, thousands of illegals, thousands of criminals. The cacophony of keening souls spun an impenetrable bell jar, the city lost to Heaven and Hell. Even with public cameras and the ubiquitous use of a universal, online economy, it was easy for someone with Sam's con skills to sink into a sea of false identities and unlawful transactions, too complicated to trace.

James Kelly the bookkeeper disappeared at a cab stand at LaGuardia Airport, and Peter Wilson (aka New Sam) arose from his mythical pyre.

Pete was ex-military, a Navy seaman who had a mediocre career with a medical discharge for a busted eardrum. (Frank made sure New Sam/Pete received a small disability pension so that he could keep his encrypted nest egg for emergencies.)

Pete had learned a little bit about electronics and a lot about keeping things clean and in order in the Navy (meaning growing up under the tutelage of ex-Marine John Winchester, who treated his sons like questionable boot camp recruits). _Shipshape_ is a real thing. So he found two part time jobs that fit his limited skill set: stocking shelves in a computer discount megastore on weekends and a third shift washing dishes and bussing tables at an all-night diner during the week.

It was a family business run by a couple of sisters who hadn't spoken to each other in years but still managed to keep the doors open and make a modest profit, even though they were forced to hire a series of incompetent cousins to keep the peace at Thanksgiving dinner.

The very good cooks batched fresh baked goods round the clock, specializing in deep-fried cake donuts and fritters. Served folks who needed breakfast or dinner at 3 am.

Pete's hair was cut short, Navy regulation length, a dull, dishwater brown, no hair product, never again, and his hazel eyes were covered with mud-colored contacts. Walked with a slight limp; told people it was from playing football in high school. Wide receiver. A bad tackle twisted a rib and ruptured a disc. Lost his college scholarship. Dropped crumbs of information to satisfy the gossips. Too much mystery was not a good thing.

A trimmed Van Dyke with streaks of dirty grey changed the shape of his jaw. The mole next to his nose was gone. Wore old Navy gear from surplus stores, no flannel, no plaid. Plain shirts and old wool sweaters and a dark blue down jacket in bad weather. And ancient glasses, held in place with a tab of black electrical tape. Near-sighted, he admitted to people, with cataracts coming in. New Sam/Pete squinted a lot.

He kept a low profile. Pete could pretend not to be wicked smart but it's harder to fake untrustworthiness and incompetence. His co-workers liked him, and his bosses promoted him with small raises, enough for him to step up from enlightened homelessness (good blankets and regular meals in clean shelters) to the tiniest of rooms in a could-be-worse boarding house, run by an immigrant family from Russia with a soft spot for American military.

It seemed as if half the businesses in NYC were family businesses.

"America saved Russia! Russia saved America," the babushka would say, pretty much ignoring the Czar, the Communists, Stalin, the KGB, the CIA, and the Cold War. Her grandfather had shared Red Cross chocolate and decent Russian vodka with an American soldier somewhere in Germany at the close of World War II, and both men returned to their respective families with only good things to say about each other, therefore, each other's countries.

International affairs for the Russian grandmother were simple. You like someone, you like their country. A formula that created a modest, safe haven cherished by the handful of men and women who lived in peace under her roof on the pittances that the government sent them.

Pete fit in well. He knew about war and the desire to live a quiet life.

So, now New Sam had a place. Food. Shelter. People who mostly treated him politely and mostly left him alone.

He had enough money to live forever in some small town, but he would be more visible on Main Street. The police chief or sheriff might start wondering about the tall, quiet man in the ranchette in one of the better cul-de-sac developments and send a snapshot to a friend at the state police, who would recognize the guy who saved his community from what the county coroner publicly declared was a serial killer, but could not account privately for the bear-sized claw marks and poisoned puncture wounds, ten years before.

An iffy neighborhood in New York City surrounded by iffy people was a better place to hide, if you were a Hunter in another life.

\-----

New Sam decided he wouldn't stay anywhere more than two years. Next stop: somewhere else he wasn't likely to be recognized. South to the piney woods of Georgia. Or north, maybe Boston, or Maine. Or Canada. Lots of space.

Or, if he stayed long enough in the Big Apple, he figured his problem would resolve itself. He'd get mugged by a gang and dumped in the Hudson River, or slip on a wet towel in the shower and crack open his head, or a set of shelves of knockoff computer monitors would crash, burying him under a ton of electronics. That would be another escape.

But, Bobby or Ash would make the call when he stopped checking in, and Dean would know he was gone. And track him down. That's what Winchesters do.

Maybe, he should have taken the easy way out and be satisfied to manifest a fake version of Dean behind a door marked with his name, in a row with thousands of other Samuel and Samantha Winchesters. Heaven, it turned out, was not as engaging as a Djinn's hallucination.  
  
Would he dream if he was bounced to the Empty, as Billie had once threatened? Or finally be at rest and escape into oblivion? No one could tell him.

Alive was hard, but alive was better. Sometimes he would forget the knife in his heart. Hear a favorite work of Brahms waft from the door of a white-cloth restaurant. See children playing on a swing set in a park. Watch a small deed of kindness between strangers.

Okay, he thought, I will stay. One day at a time. One pebble in the basket, each day, moves the mountain.

Only once did New Sam, meaning Pete, slip up. A diner customer, delirious on a jumble of drugs, rushed him with a knife. A big knife. And obviously crazy because the diner was a favorite hangout for NYPD Blues. Good coffee and fresh donuts all night long make for happy and loyal cops.

Pete was walking towards the kitchen with a big serving tray of dirty dishes when the delusional junkie charged. Pete shifted the tray to one hand, reached out, grabbed the would-be assailant by the wrist while avoiding getting stuck by the knife, flung him over his head, and kept walking. The customer landed hard, but only suffered a moderate concussion and bruised ribs.

The police were there in five minutes. Pete's response was so fast that most of the witnesses claimed the crazoid slipped and fell on his own, or Pete kind of dodged him or used the tray as a shield. Pete shrugged when questioned, gave simple responses, looked the cops in the eyes, open to scrutiny. The police picked up a box of donuts, gratis, and took the unconscious druggie to a nearby emergency room for a medical check-up and a night handcuffed to a hospital bed.

When pressed, Pete said he learned a couple of tricks in the Navy when on leave someplace. His friends at work collectively shrugged and moved on to discuss the latest political scandal in Albany and the frustrating football season.

\-----

After each work shift, Pete would return to the rooming house. Have a snack of sweet, spiced tea, thin, sugar cookies, and canned cherries at the communal breakfast table, chat with whatever family member was on call, and limp to his room.   
  
The tiny room was warm and quiet; it had been a pantry once upon a time. Had space for a bed and a dresser and some hooks on the wall for his coat and a warm hoodie.   
  
A vent for heat. One small window that didn't open, covered with a curtain sewn from bleached cotton dish towels, embroidered with sunflowers by the landlady. Russians love sunflowers.

A small mirror over the dresser. The walls were painted a pale blue like an early morning sky.  
  
The surprisingly comfortable bed was a slab of cheap foam, cut to fit over a long piece of plywood on short legs like an oversized coffee table. Long enough so that the tall man's feet didn't hang over the edge. The linens and blankets were worn but clean. Three pillows, a small luxury.  
  
Everything smelled of lavender, the old grandmother's favorite scent.   
  
No power outlets. Didn't need any when the house had been built, more than a century before. A switch on the wall next to the door. One ceiling light. But most of the time Pete didn't bother. Peter Wilson didn't read, except the occasional sports magazine.  
  
Would kick off his shoes. Toss his shirt and pants, socks and underwear, onto the sliver of floor next to the dresser. His landlady let the tenants use the washer and dryer for free; even supplied decent laundry soap.

"So you will look good, not like bums.  
  
Pete would pull on a terry cloth bath robe from one of the hooks. He had found it at a church thrift store. Would take a shower in the shared bathroom in the hallway, which the Russians kept spotless. The boarding house towels were too small for him, so he bought a couple of garish beach towels from a street vendor; the bright tropical colors amused Pete. Not something Old Sam would have owned. Used bargain bar soap, pink and floral. Even his landlady thought it smelled too old-fashioned.  
  
His anti-possession tattoo had disappeared; he would wash the bare skin with his hand, trying to feel what might remain. The warding still worked, but the visible component was burned away by a poultice of rare herbs and lamb's blood, a recipe that Bobby had uncovered. Took Old Sam weeks to buy the ingredients, sneaking them into the Bunker one vial at a time. He waited for Dean to head off on a salt-and-burn in the Texas Panhandle just before a full moon. Waited an hour and called to make sure his brother was on his way and would not return immediately. He mixed the compound, took off his clothing, laid on the floor of the shower, and slathered it on.  
  
It burned red-hot as the ink was pulled out his skin, rendering the image invisible. He cried from the pain and passed out. When he woke up, a few hours later, the wet herbs had been reduced to a red ash, colored by the blood. He expected to see blisters when he washed it off, but his skin was smooth. Even a Supernatural creature would not be able to see the aura from the warding, but it still would prevent his becoming a vessel for an errant demon. 

He slept in sweat pants he picked up at a Navy surplus store, the kind that looked used as soon as they came out of the package, with threads unraveling at the seams.   
  
\-----

Pete worked hard, seven days a week, because he needed long hours to numbed him emotionally. Some weekdays, when he woke up from his night shift too early, he would walk for miles until he was physically exhausted. The only way he could sleep.

He now lived with half a heart, a wounded bird that fluttered but had forgotten how to soar.

He had left all the people he loved. The combined loss impacted his body like a high-level amputation. He felt shaky, off-kilter. Pete didn't try not to think of Dean. Just let the memories wash over him.

Explained his nightmares and the crying to the kind Russian family as the legacy of an abusive childhood.

Didn't have to lie.

That was his life for the first five months after he disappeared. He flipped a little switch on a box to let Bobby know that he was breathing on the 15th, five times.  
  
Not fine, couldn't pretend to be fine, but could be worse.

Then, he walked into a small cafe and bookstore, the _Garden of Eden,_ for a cup of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: A new man comes into Sam's life.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter: Where did Sam go? No archive warnings. Just a little sad.


End file.
